Echoes of the White Horn
by Partners in Crime
Summary: Pre-LotR: A detour into the white mountains of Gondor while returning home from Dol Amroth proves perilous for Boromir and Faramir, and the only help available is from a complete stranger, AU elements - COMPLETE
1. Higher Ground

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

**Echoes of the White Horn**

Summary: Set in TA 3001. Faramir is 18 and Boromir is 23. A detour into the white mountains of Gondor while returning home from Dol Amroth proves perilous for Boromir and Faramir, and the only help available is from a complete stranger who may or may not be worthy of such trust. There are AU elements. 

Chapter 1: Higher Ground

High up the mountains under the shadow of the imposing snow-clad peaks, a rider stood alone with none but his steed for company. A tall man with the build and raiment of one used to war and travel, he protected himself from the cold with an old grey cloak pulled tightly around his frame. His horse stood by, patiently nibbling at the sparse tufts of grass that sprang up here and there across the rocky ground that still held pockets of melting snow in its tiny crevices. The crisp mountain air assailed the nostrils of man and beast, as they stood atop a spur while he appraised the landscape spread out below, assessing the distance to be covered for him to make his assignation, the weather permitting. The clouds above him loomed as grim as his countenance, but did nothing to take away from the stark, soundless beauty of the land.

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The sun broke through a cover of grey clouds and gleamed off the snow coating the high peaks of the White Mountains of Ered Nimrais, as two horsemen rode down the winding paths of the lower mountains, towards the fair vales in the foothills. Riding unescorted, clothed in garb similar to that worn by the rangers of the lands of Gondor, the sons of the steward of the realm were similar in appearance, raven of hair with clear grey eyes, though varying in build and stature.

"I look forward to our return home now; we have been away long enough," came the cheerful comment of the horseman in the lead. Boromir was the elder of the two, taller in height and sturdier in build.

"We have not visited Uncle Imrahil in a long time. A few days is not long to spare for our uncle and cousins, and I am grateful father allowed for it," came his brother Faramir's reply, "Although we _would_ be home at present, if we had not had to stop at Lossarnach, and you had not insisted on coming into the mountains." 

"Father asked us to stop at Lossarnach on our return. And it appears to me to he did that with reason."

"Yes I do suppose he did," Faramir acknowledged, "Lord Forlong did seem impressed by the courtesy. But father will not like it that we have tarried towards the mountains instead of returning to Minas Tirith and our duties."

"It is barely a day we have spent. And it was for you. A bow like that is worth much. It is true what they told us in Lossarnach. That old man knows how to craft a good weapon indeed. You will realise it when you use it. And you will need a good bow in your hands when you are in Ithilien."

"I will need much more than that," the younger one muttered, still wondering how his father would react on being told that his two sons were riding alone through the wilds of the mountains, to get his younger son a new bow, after the old one had broken due to the efforts of an enthusiastic younger cousin in Dol Amroth by the sea. Boromir had seen one such bow being used and upon inquiring had learnt that they were made by an old man in a sparsely inhabited hamlet tucked away in the higher reaches of the peaks rising above the valley, one of the rare dwellings in those altitudes. The large riding horses they had ridden back on were due to have been changed at Lossarnach. And changed they were, in exchange for two sturdy mountain ponies better suited for this journey as the route was known to be steep and narrow. While neither would have qualified as mounts for Gondor's excellent cavalry regiments, they were certainly better suited than any other kind of mount, to carry packs between the lower vales and the hamlets in the upper reaches, than for soldiering on. Neither majestic nor graceful, they were however sturdy and strong and just as sure-footed as the best cavalry stallions that either brother had ridden. 

The object of the quest lay in Boromir's hands now and he was fingering it lovingly with one hand, feeling the touch of the smooth, firm wood, while the fingers of the other hand rested limply on the reins of his mare.

"I thought you might like seeing the mountains," Boromir said absently, "Surely, there is much on these peaks and vales in those dusty books you keep reading. And you seemed enraptured by the songs the minstrels sang of Nimrodel. Did they not say she wandered these very mountains?"

"I am certain she wandered far to our west," Faramir asserted, "we have not come that far, have we? And I am also certain that you talk of her merely to divert from the subject we speak of."

"But surely a subject you would rather talk of? Aye, we may not have come that far for the mountains stretch many a mile, all the way to Morthond and beyond. We have but touched a small portion. Some day you too must ride to Rohan, along the west road on the other side," Boromir's voice reflected the enthusiasm he felt for the journey he had undertaken a year ago to the northern lands.

"Not upon an animal such as this," came the emphatic retort.

Boromir laughed aloud, "Nay, wild our northern neighbours may be, but they know their horses well!"

They were riding abreast now, for the path was wider here, running through a forest of tall trees.

"And you, I see, have learnt to master your mount well," Boromir added suddenly.

His brother shrugged, "Should not every soldier?"

"I knew we would make a soldier of you yet," Boromir said smiling. All their growing years, the brothers while similar in looks had varied in many other matters. Boromir's interests lay in matters military, to the extent that even whatever interest he showed in lore and literature, was limited to those related with war and battle. Faramir on the other hand, had over the years found himself drawn towards learning and more scholarly pursuits. However, Gondor and especially Minas Tirith, could ill afford the luxury to rear exclusively scholars, and therefore among the young men of a land striving to keep its enemies at bay for many years now, the skills of a warrior were often held above all else.

Little wonder then that by his eighteenth year, Faramir was as accomplished with horses and weapons as Boromir had been at his age. A fact that had had Boromir very surprised but at the same time very proud. He could look every inch the soldier armed and kitted out in the colours of his company one day but then the very next, be found equally in place in the vast libraries of the white city.

"What do you look at like this?" Faramir's voice sounded curious, with a little inflexion of something else, almost akin to nervousness. 

"You have grown," Boromir said after some thought, "If I do not watch out, you may some day be the taller one."

The only reply to that was a distinctive snort.

"This is slow going," Faramir grumbled, pulling his cloak tight around him, as a crisp, cold wind blew across the mountains, bringing with it the touch of the snow and ice on the higher reaches, "Father will not like it if we are not home soon." he reiterated.

The path led out of the trees into open mountainside now as it skirted the edge of the wood. To the distance through the thin swirls of mist could be seen the valleys below, and in the mind's eye, one could picture them sloping into the fields and orchards of the town lands made rich by the waters of the Anduin. Most of the people lived either in the valleys or in the city.

"Are you not glad that we came then?" Boromir asked as he observed his younger brother take in the view. All that could be heard around them was the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, and the cries of birds. In the distance a stream gurgled on its way towards the larger rivers that spanned the plains, before they in turn joined the Anduin or flowed straight into the sea. They had never come this way before, their forays into the mountains of Gondor being limited to the northern face where stood the large peaks, or to the friendly rolling hills of Lossarnach that welcomed visitors with carpets of flowers and pretty hamlets basking in mild sunshine. To these heights they were coming for the first time, where the huge mountains stretched far above the ground seemingly reaching for the sky, their tips cut off by low lying clouds, so that on occasion it seemed they were indeed touching the azure expanse above. The heights seemed less to beckon one with pretty sights than to inspire awe with their sheer rugged beauty. Silence seemed to reign supreme there as a homage to their existence.

"I am glad," his brother acknowledged softly, "It is so different from the confines of the city, is it not? And it is just as beautiful." 

His voice remained level but to Boromir the underlying meaning was clear as day. He had always known that Faramir would prefer to be anywhere in Gondor but in Minas Tirith, a testament to the fragility of the bonds that held what remained of his family together, a fragility he had long since resigned himself too, unable to understand the reasons behind it, unsure whether there were any reasons behind it at all. His father and younger brother shared a tenuous relationship, one that was always in danger of being strained too far, and it appeared that Faramir had hit upon the best solution to prevent that – distance, the further the better, although that meant being away from the vast libraries of the city, that constituted his favoured refuge. He had literally jumped at the opportunity to serve with the rangers in Ithilien, and in a wry moment Boromir had wondered if he might not be the first to volunteer if they ever needed one to journey farther, perhaps even into Harad. Any hurry to return home at that moment was, he knew, due more to avoid having to explain to their father that the delay arose from getting him a new bow than to any real desire to re-enter the strong citadel that formed the city of Minas Tirith, the seat of the kings and stewards of Gondor.

The journey to Dol Amroth had been welcomed with relief, short though it had been, for they had their outposts to return to. Their uncle had been happy to receive them, their young cousins overjoyed, and they had enjoyed themselves thoroughly, lapsing into the role of carefree young men with nary a care after months of being soldiers worrying over the defense of a land that was forced to combat many dangers, and face enemies from myriad directions. In Dol Amroth, Boromir did not find himself caught between his father and brother. And in Dol Amroth, Faramir found himself free to talk about anything.

But it was back to Minas Tirith now, and to stilted conversations and careful steps. For while Faramir had long outgrown the stage where he might have openly resented their father's preference to acknowledge his elder son's achievements and gloss over the younger one's, to the discerning eyes of the concerned elder brother, the hidden feelings were only too apparent. 

Faramir turned his attention to the trees growing around them. He had recognised them as the Lebethron that grew in profusion in the lower reaches of the mountains, but was known across the land for its wood. Staves made from it were in use as far as Ithilien by the rangers that roamed that land of climbing woods and shrub covered rocky walls. Faramir looked ahead to the east. He tugged at a dry twig from one of the low hanging branches and twirled it lightly in his fingers. To the east, across the Anduin lay Ithilien, and in Ithilien roamed the company of rangers he was to join and train with upon his return. An event he regarded with not little apprehension, for while he had, as Boromir pointed out, improved his swordsmanship and archery skills greatly, he was perceptive enough to realise that the skills he had acquired and honed within the walls of the city would be only a fraction of what would be required in a real field of battle. But then, it gave him a chance to get away.

Living sequestered inside the walls of Minas Tirith, one could easily forget how vast the world outside lay, and they had seen barely a fraction of it. He had never even been to Rohan in the north, and it was said the lands stretched further ahead from there. Strange lands that he heard of only from reading texts of history or tales of what seemed to be myth, tales of elves and of battles fought years ago. And then there were the lands to their east stretching far out, lands they had never entirely been at peace with, so that over and over again, one was reminded of their existence in a manner not particularly welcomed.

"A pretty piece of wood, indeed brother, but your attention would lie better upon the path we travel," Boromir's voice interrupted his reverie, and he looked up to find himself perilously close to the edge of the path, and a look of consternation on his brother's face as he leaned forward to place a hand on his shoulder. His mare however, exhibited no concern, as she continued to pick her way over the stony track, staying close to the edge at all times. He jerked her to a halt and nudged her away, "She is quite sure-footed," he assured Boromir calmly.

"Perhaps, but I will breathe easier if she exhibits her talent well away from such a steep drop," Boromir retorted, "We must stop for water along the way. I can hear a stream in the distance."

"We shall be on the highway to the city by tomorrow, in time to join the carriers travelling to the market in Minas Tirith," Boromir said decidedly.

"The night falls early in these parts," Faramir reminded him, glancing up at the midmorning sky showing tiny patches of bright blue between grey and white clouds.

"And you can test your new bow for yourself," Boromir continued, ignoring his younger brother's decidedly pessimistic comments as he led his mount down the path, steep and narrow, skirting a sharp edge that fell straight into a swiftly flowing stream below. Every now and then a small stone or piece of earth would dislodge due to the striking of the horses' hooves and plunge all the way down into the swirling water of a swiftly flowing mountain stream far below. 

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Elsewhere in the mountains, a grim-faced man watched the gathering clouds thoughtfully, while patting his mount gently. The brief rest over, he mounted the horse with a skill of one used to trusting other legs than his own, and set off on his way down a lonely mountain path long fallen into disuse, as swiftly as the uneven surface would allow.

To be continued-

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Authors' Notes: This is the first time we've attempted writing something together. Therefore, all feedback is appreciated. We like praise but we are also open to criticism. As mentioned earlier, it will have AU elements but we've tried to fit them in with the book.


	2. Troubled Water

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

_Sorry for the delay in updating!_

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 2: Troubled Water

He could not afford such long stops any longer. He was to meet an old acquaintance who had asked him for his help. And so far, he had been able to do little by way of fulfilling that request, although he had not expected to find what they sought where he had searched. The chances that their ultimate destination laid further east were high, and he wished to get there soon. The days were not far when the snows would fall on the lower slopes and plains too, and in such a situation, the task at hand would only become harder. So, he hastened his way down the steep, winding trails. He had come to this land after long, and he had many memories of the paths he traversed now, and those he was heading towards. The memories were both good and bad, so he dwelt on the good through his ride, hoping to better his frame of mind and to think of other matters. 

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It was a quiet path for a while, as the steepness of the route required concentration from both the riders and their mounts, and for many long seconds the only sounds to be heard were those of the trees swaying in the wind, the stream flowing below, and the chinks made by the pebbles they dislodged, each plummeting into the water with a barely audible splash. Lower and lower they descended, slowly and steadily, carefully winding down the steep rocky trail which followed the same path as the stream, hugging their cloaks for warmth as the skies above grew steadily greyer. 

"The weather turns foul," Faramir commented softly, forcing Boromir to turn around in his saddle, one that like the horse it serviced had purely utilitarian value and little appearance. The stout little pony snorted at the sudden movement, and nearly came to a stop, before her rider controlled her expertly, dislodging a fairly large chunk of earth that entered the water below with a loud splash, and made both riders almost wince.

"'Tis nothing," Boromir dismissed lightly, when he resumed speaking, "It often gets this way in the mountains. It rains suddenly, and just as sudden does it stop. And it is the time of the year for the seasons to change."

Faramir glanced at the sky distrustfully. He doubted if what they faced ahead would stop at a sudden downpour. But Boromir had found other matters to talk of. 

"You spoke to the horsemen we met while leaving Lossarnach for a long while. Was there aught of interest in what they said?"

There was just the slightest hint of hesitation before the answer came from the rider following closely behind, "They spoke of seeing Mithrandir." And then after another short pause, "I wondered if he would visit Minas Tirith, should he be in these parts as they say."

"The wizard? He has not been seen in Gondor for many a month now, has he?"

"Nay. I fear he comes merely if he feels there is need for it."

Boromir shrugged, no longer interested. His attention wandered back to the new bow that he was still holding. He tested it for its balance once again, an exercise that he kept repeating over and over again.

"I wish he would come more often," Faramir ventured slowly. He had fond memories of the few precious hours he got to spend with the old wizard on his visits to Minas Tirith. They had been hours abounding in knowledge and wisdom for an impressionable child who had seen in the Istar a mentor akin to Boromir. Where Boromir helped him in physical prowess and military matters, the old visitor helped him learn in other matters, those of lore and learning, and many more subjects. What he could not find out from the libraries or from his tutors and dared not ask his father, he had often asked Mithrandir, should he be visiting, which however, was a rare occasion. And when he did visit, the one who welcomed him the most in the steward's household, if at all, was always Faramir, who looked eagerly to him to satiate a natural curiosity honed by his love for learning.

Boromir gave another non-committal shrug; "There is need in Gondor for other things than wizardry, and tales of old."

"There is need for many things in many places," came a distant reply, and then with a greater degree of pertness, "But, all I see need for now is that you watch your path as you advised me to some while ago." 

Their horses seemed to be inordinately comfortable at the outer edge of the trail, rather than at its middle, a situation that often left the onlooker more apprehensive than the rider, especially as they were more accustomed to riding on relatively level ground. 

"And what need do you think Mithrandir has in Gondor at this time?" Boromir asked curiously, drawing his eyes away from the steep drop below them. 

"Perhaps, _he_ has not the need," Faramir suggested, "I think it is oft others who need him, than he need someone. And I think father does not see that or he would be more welcoming towards him."

"I do not know of that," Boromir said softly. His interaction with the wizard was limited. They had met a few times when he had been younger but not in recent years while he served with his company, and spent much less time in Minas Tirith. But he knew from what he overheard that his brother spent much time with this infrequent visitor from some land far and distant, and that his father disapproved of it. 

But then, his father disapproved of many things his brother did. Boromir often wondered if it was because his father and his younger brother were so similar in nature that they clashed so often in their own subtle way. When he was younger he had often wondered if his father seemed to favour him in many matters, over Faramir for the simple reason that he looked like him while Faramir seemed to resemble their mother from what they could remember of her. That was the simplest reasoning a child's mind could come up with for something that seemed unreasonable. But in later years, it had become abundantly clear that while Denethor and his elder son might resemble each other physically, that was where the similarity ended. And that was where the similarity between Denethor and Faramir took off, and grew with each passing year, to an extent that left even Boromir bewildered, because it seemed to hinder rather than aid their interaction.

"I suppose father sees no need for his counsel. He fares quite well on his own," he continued musingly.

"Father rarely sees the need for heeding counsel from any other save himself," Faramir stated calmly.

"It _has_ served him fairly well as of now," his brother pointed out.

He shook his head a little, and then changed the subject pointing out to a spot where the track widened out and a small spring appeared across the incline, before vanishing underground somewhere below. The horses needed water and their riders carried with them some bread the old man in the tiny hamlet had given them, to partake of on their way. They stopped briefly by the small water source, and while the horses drank water and nibbled at the small tufts of yellowing grass, they bit into large chunks of bread, sweet to taste and different from what they normally ate, but still enjoyable, and still soft for the loaves had been kept wrapped in thin, damp cloth. 

Most of their time sitting there, they spent wondering aloud as to where the small spring disappeared to, and finally settled for the easiest solution that it probably flowed somehow into the swift stream that they could still raging its way down some distance below. There were other smaller trails setting off deep into the mountains from near the spring. They were narrower than the one they used, and seemed to have fallen into disuse many years ago, probably a relic from the days when these routes were more frequented than now, for few came this way now.

All through their journey to the hamlet and all this way returning from it, the brothers had come across none other along their way, neither friend nor foe. And they were prepared for either. Both carried their swords, and Faramir had a quiver full of arrows, although the bow lay in Boromir's hands. And Boromir carried with him as always, a great horn, a legacy borne for centuries by the eldest son of the House of Hurin, which if used could immediately summon aid without fail.

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He frowned sharply as the wind floated in the sound of voices. He had reached the lower heights making rapid progress through old disused trails that many had forgotten about, but he did not think he had reached so low as to encounter the inhabitants of the mountain dwellings that he had once visited long before. He could make out that they came from further below, perhaps a lower trail running parallel to his. Over the sound of a stream running somewhere distant, a tinier one running somewhere near, and the leaves rustling in the stiff breeze, the voices were distinct enough for him to make out that the speakers were fairly young and spoke in Westron, but too indistinct to decipher the exact words they uttered. He frowned a little when an indistinct word reaching his ears, seemed to sound very familiar, but then decided there was much in this land he was familiar with.

He could however make out the distinct sound of their horses as he listened carefully. The trotting motion of the sturdy feet told him they were local horses that people in the vales reared, pack animals unlike the one he rode, a slightly more magnificent steed, but an ageing one. He decided he would continue his own way. The snows had not fallen yet, so surely there would be people travelling in these parts for some more days. It was not unlikely.

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The mounts and their riders both set off refreshed from their stop, and picked up speed for a while. Both animals strayed close to the edge in the precise and sure-footed way that was their wont, but by now the brothers were used to this. The path continued to remain narrow as it hugged the edge of the steep slopes. They could no longer ride abreast and Boromir rode a few paces ahead of his brother, turning around every now and then should he wish to address him. Above them the sky continued to darken and the patches of blue and white they had noticed earlier had now vanished behind a dense grey curtain. Not far below them, the stream their path followed continued on its rapid way. Boromir still held the bow in his hands, and continually balanced it lightly on his fingers even as he rode.

They slowed down when Faramir found his pony limping slightly and on dismounting and examining her hoof, found a small stone lodged in it. He knelt down to dislodge it with the aid of the small knife he carried, while Boromir reined in his own mount to a slow trot near the edge and turned around to speak to him. It never became clear exactly what transpired after that. It might have been the sudden streak of lightning that flashed through the mountains for it obviously scared both horses, causing them to neigh furiously, but when Boromir turned in his saddle at the same time, the little pony reared up with a start, forcing her rider to fight for control on a horse he was unaccustomed to and in terrain he was unused to. 

Boromir grabbed at the reins to control the horse, and in the sudden movement the bow slipped out of his hands. To Faramir, his next course of action seemed completely foolhardy when mounted on a skittish horse standing at the edge of a steep cliff, but Boromir acted purely on reflex as a soldier would. Sliding his feet out of the stirrups, he reached out one hand as soon as the bow fell from it, the other still holding tight to the reins. His mount reared up again, this time neighing furiously. The distressed animal moved sideways, right onto the edge.

Faramir watched in complete disbelief from his kneeling position as his brother lost his balance and tilted off the horse towards the drop, his legs slipping off the stirrups. Before he could realise it, a second flash of lightning struck and the horse had reared up again, this time accompanied with a particularly scary whinny, and her rider had slid over the edge of the near vertical drop with a speed that left the extremely distraught onlooker completely unable to help. A loud drumming set off in his ears that drowned any other sound around him, and left him nearly rooted to where he still knelt on the ground. It was not until the feeling subsided and he heard the sound of something connecting water that he recovered and dropping the hoof he still held, ran towards where barely a second ago, Boromir had been getting off his horse. The animal backed away as he neared it, snorting rapidly. The rapid fall had thrown up a cloud of mud and stones, blocking Faramir's vision even as he reached the precipitous spot.

He could make out nothing from where he stood. It was a sheer vertical face, smooth and bereft of any vegetation. While not very high, it fell straight into the stream below, with no barriers in the way.

All he could see were the white, swirling waters below that swiftly cut deeper and deeper through the brown cliffs. The bow lay on the edge of the path where it had fallen, and the rider-less horse snorted softly.

A loud peal of thunder sounded from above.

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He fretted at the sight of the covered sky, and watched annoyed as lightning streaked the mountains. They seemed to be in for a storm unless the clouds were to clear up. A small series of neighs sounded, and he had to keep his own horse calmer after that. His steed was not unused to lightning, but it seemed the horses they could hear, were. A second streak cut the sky, and then a particularly loud whinny sounded through from somewhere ahead, followed by a series of noises that his extremely sharp hearing managed to pick up.

It occurred to him as he heard the sky rumble loudly that what he had heard definitely did not bode very well for someone. 

To be continued-

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Thanks to Susan, Nazgul, Rachel and IceAngel for their reviews and encouragement! 

Updates will probably be weekly, but it's a pretty short story!


	3. A Silent Valley

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 3: A Silent Valley 

The loud rumbling noise magnified as it struck the tall horn shaped peaks, resonating through deep valleys and gorges. The long drawn sound caused the horses to neigh again and louder this time. But Faramir ignored them as he continued to stand at the edge of the cliff his eyes riveted on the water, hoping to see Boromir break through the surface and wave up at him. Instead, the stream flowed on undisturbed by any outside influence. 

A sound resembling a horse whinnying floated in from a completely different direction, startling him for a moment. He decided it had probably been an echo. The thunder died away and an unnerving silence took its place. It might have been barely a second or perhaps two since it had happened, but to Faramir, it seemed as though time had come to a standstill before he found himself able to move. Even the leaves seemed to have stopped rustling with the wind as a deafening quiet hit his straining ears.

To him the entire predicament seemed unreal and yet he knew what was happening was no dream but was actually taking place. One moment his brother had been sitting astride his mount and the next moment he was doing so no longer, all by some quirk of fate, and Faramir had been unable to help. And yet it seemed unimaginable that by something as seemingly ordinary as a flash of lightning, a horseman as excellent as Boromir was known to be could be unseated. But it had happened, and now he found himself wondering what to do as he sank down to his knees and peered over the edge feeling a mix of trepidation and hope stirring in his heart.

He looked closely, focusing his gaze on the water once again as though willing Boromir to make an appearance. They had followed the stream on its downstream path knowing that it would drain into a larger stream running towards the flatlands. The water curved out of his gaze almost immediately, winding around behind the cliff that formed one wall of its valley. The spot where it turned away however, was hidden from his sight by a rocky overhang. That there was no one in the section of water he could see now was clear. As he watched the flow, he realised it was swift enough for Boromir to have rounded the cliff by the time he had reached this spot. If he had been unable to fight the rapid current, it was likely he had simply allowed himself to float some way down before reaching a more pliant section. He might well be swimming ashore a little way downstream at this very moment. 

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he resorted to a most natural reaction and called out for his brother. The name resounded back at him loud and manifold, and he knew anyone who could, would have heard it. 

But there was no reply, just the sound of the returning echoes dying away. Closing his eyes and trying to maintain some measure of calmness, he tried once again and the result was the same. The answering voice his ears ached to hear remained absent. He continued sitting there with his eyes closed, partly from shock and partly because he still harboured the notion that the answer would soon come ringing through.

By his side, Boromir's pony reared up again, whinnying piteously as she realised her rider was nowhere to be seen. She stamped an impatient hoof on the ground twice near Faramir until he opened his eyes and looked up, his face still a mirror of disbelief. He looked at the horse, and then at the bow lying on the edge of the path and realised he would have to do something other than sit there and wait for a reply. If Boromir had not answered his call, it could only mean that his brother was not in a condition to do so. And knowing him as he did, that was definitely a cause for immense worry. 

Picking up the weapon, he rose sluggishly and grabbed the animal's bridle to soothe her, "It was naught to do with you. He turned to talk to me, or he would not have fallen. I distracted him. And now I must find him," he spoke softly more to himself than to the animal he was trying to quieten. And all the while, he found himself steadily losing composure. 

Taking a deep breath, he made up his mind quickly. He had to get down to the water and find his brother. If he could not see any sign of him, it simply meant he had rounded the bend, and probably lay ashore somewhere along the bank.

He glanced up and down along the path, his mind attempting to analyse as quickly as possible, what his choices were. He could not reach the water's edge from where he stood, but a little down the way they had come he had noticed a portion where the sharp fall had taken on a gentler slope. It was not at all far, barely a few paces from where they were. His pony seemed alright now that the stone had been removed, so he gathered the two ponies together. Tying Boromir's pony to his, he led them back some paces until they reached the spot he sought. Hewn into the hillside were a series of ruts and depressions where once a seasonal stream might have cut its way down. The water had dried up but the path it might have taken for a few months each year for centuries, now provided some semblance of a route downwards. Bushes and small trees stood out almost horizontally all along. 

Wondering what to do with the horses now, he finally settled on taking them along but decided that the food, medicinal herbs and other necessary items should remain in his hands. He opened Boromir's small pack and transferred all the required contents into his and slung it over his shoulder. The weight was little for they had carried along nothing but the barest provisions, sending along their larger packs ahead to Minas Tirith with the couriers from Lossarnach. Looking at the rough track he had to follow, he decided he could not possibly risk riding either horse, no matter how stable or sure-footed they might be. But he _could_ walk them down. When he found Boromir they might find it easier, he thought, to move on from there than to come back up the cliff for their mounts and retrace their steps. 

That there might be any other conclusion to his quest he did not pause to consider.

It did occur to him as ironic, however, that a soldier of his brother's calibre, one who had at a very young age led his men adeptly and efficiently with great courage, and survived countless skirmishes against men and Orcs and all manner of foe, should suffer from a chance incident such as this. The more he thought of it the more it annoyed him. They had feared a verbal reprisal from their father, when they returned, for riding unescorted through the mountains because Orc attacks were not unknown in the region. Instead, all it had taken was a pebble, a streak of lightning, a skittish horse and a steep cliff and no escort could have foreseen or prevented that. His father's words on this were another matter he decided not to bring into consideration.

He gave out another shout, as loud as the previous ones, but this time laced with a greater degree of despair than earlier. Beside him the ponies started at his sudden yell. Each passing second weighed heavily on him and to not know where Boromir was or how he was, was beginning to scare him excessively. 

The skies above darkened further as he set off rapidly down the natural ladder; pack slung over one shoulder, quiver over the other, and the bow still held in his hand. It was intact despite the drop, and the smooth feel of the curved wood in his hands gave his fingers something to clutch onto and helped him regain a little of his usual calm. He trudged his way down, preferring not to dwell on the unsavory thoughts that lay dormant but uppermost in his mind, thoughts that he feared to voice even to himself, preferring instead to search for some instinct that told him that everything would be alright. He found if he concentrated on his tight grip of the bow in one hand, and of the reins of Boromir's pony in the other, and of the scree strewn path he followed, he would not have to cast his mind in a direction he wished it not to head towards.

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He was not entirely certain, but it seemed to him that someone, or something, had taken a fall and come in contact with water. Hearing a series of high-pitched neighs along with the thunder, his immediate conclusion was that a horse had been injured. But then he realised the animals' cries were more of fright than hurt. His own steed reacted none too well to those noises, the fright felt by a kindred transmitting itself easily through the air. Gently running one weather-beaten hand along the mane of the uneasy horse, he soothed him down speaking softly and calmly into his ears. That done, he stood silently waiting for the thunder to roll away, trying to decide which direction the sounds had come from. 

That someone was in trouble, he no longer doubted. The sounds he had heard indicated a descent from a height into water. And he could hear the sounds of a stream nearby. 

It was the sound of a shout that pierced through the silence, which told him what he wished to know, and confirmed what he had already deduced. It was a voice fraught with worry and concern calling out a name that was lost to the winds by the time it carried over to him. It was however apparent that it came not far from where he stood and it did not take him long to deduce that whatever had occurred involved the stream he was nearing. Feeling the chill in the air increase as the clouds continued to gather together, dark, heavy and foreboding rain, he tightened his cloak, adjusting the small silver brooch pinned to the left shoulder. 

Riding carefully on the overgrown track through a dense wood towards the sound of the water, he heard the shouts again. They were louder this time, and more desperate. His horse snorted softly as though in response. Once again, he heard no answering echoes.

As the sound of the stream grew louder to his ears, so did another loud shout. A huge thunderclap followed. There were, he now knew, at least two other than him in these lonely paths, one apparently well enough to give voice to his concern for the other. The other, though, seemed to be unable to respond. There may have been more, but he had already decided that no matter how many they were, they could pose no threat to him. And that _they_ seemed unworried of attracting any threat judging by the noise that emanated.

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Faramir stood at the water's edge watching it flow before him through the valley. From his vantage point it seemed as though huge walls rose up on either side of him, towered by an unfriendly roof of grey clouds. The stream flowed swift and uninviting, as dark as the skies reflected in it, save where angry white foam swirled on the surface each time it hit a rock embedded in its bed. Standing upon smooth stones slicked with water where the spray hit them continuously, he shouted yet again. Forming a horn with his hands, he called out for Boromir as loudly as possible, to be heard over the sound of the water, unheeding of the fact that he might be attracting attention towards himself. They had seen none other along the way and that there might be other dangers lurking along the route was a fact that had slipped from his mind. He was simply becoming increasingly worried. There was no sign of anyone along either bank as far as he could see. He would have to follow the stream till he found Boromir.

The thunder sounded again, and this time the echoes were louder as they bounced off either mountainous wall. He scrambled inelegantly over the wet, slippery surface along the stream, managing somehow to maintain his balance as he raced towards the spot where he could see the river curve around the cliff, his hands still clutching onto the bow. The two horses ambled along steadily behind him. A cold wind whipped around them, setting up a whistling roar in Faramir's ears to compete with the rushing noise of the river. But the sound of the wind felt more pleasant to his ears, reminding him as it did of the horns and trumpets blown each morning and evening from the parapets of his city.

As he neared the area that he thought might correspond to the place Boromir had fallen from, the bank kept narrowing until it vanished altogether. The cliffs simply fell into the water with merely a very narrow and shallow shelf of moss-covered rock that provided for a walking surface. He found that he had to wade through the water very carefully if he wanted to move ahead. 

He stepped in carefully, trying to use the cliff as a support for his free hand to maintain his balance. The water tugged at his ankles inducing him to step even more carefully over the slimy moss-covered bed. The ponies stepped into deeper water, as ones used to it, calmly ignoring the water swirling around them. He contemplated whether to mount one to make his way easier but decided against it. Lightning seemed to make them uneasy, and he had no wish to find himself falling headfirst into a river because his horse got scared. The curve of the valley was marked by a rock formation that hung over the flowing water, and seemed to be the only dry surface he could look forward to climbing onto. It created a small eddy on the river surface, churning water in and out, and causing a small mass of rotting leaves, grass and moss to pile up at the base of the rocks as the swirling waters deposited them there each time they entered the circular current.

He was just about to clamber onto the rocks over the tiny maelstrom they had created, when the churning waters dashed something against his foot. He nearly fell over from the impact as the hard object hit his ankle, jarring his bone, and not very gently. Reaching the safety of the rocks, he scrambled onto them and regaining his balance, bending down and fished in the water for the object for it felt like more than an ordinary rock. His fingers closed around a strangely shaped object and he pulled it out. But its feel in his hand had already warned him what to expect.

It was a horn, a great horn bound with silver and inlaid with writing. Boromir's horn.

To be continued-

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Thank you for the reviews. They were lovely!

Susan- Sorry for the delay with the second chapter. You do seem to have figured out what's going on, though;-)

Runaround – Thank you

My own – Ah well, that's the brothers themselves;-) They're really wonderful characters and have plenty of depth. 

Heartsings –Thank you

IceAngel- You liked the description of the accident? That's nice to hear because it was quite worrisome to write. It just would not come out sounding correct and it still does not feel all that satisfactory.

The Oboist's Apprentice – probably of medium height;-)

Rose – Glad you like it so far. Please feel free to nitpick. The commonly used language did pose a question. Appendix F seemed to indicate it should be Westron. There was that scene in Ithilien of course, but it wasn't clear which was more commonly used. Thanks for reverting on it again. It's really quite easy to figure out who the stranger is; he's definitely canonical. Remember it's AU, so a few unspecified things were inferred and stretched broadly (a little _too_ broadly, perhaps) and if you like, hints can always be given out;-)

Osheen –Hope you got the email? Thank you for your lovely reviews. It was too kind of you to make such a comparison! And thanks for pointing out those bits. They're sorted out now. Do quibble all you like; it helps.


	4. Along the Riverside

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 4: Along the Riverside

The rider reached the stream sooner than he had expected to. A gently sloping stretch of forest floor suddenly led him to a small grassy outcrop. The water flowed noisily below it. The current looked to be strong but the flow here was calmer than a little way upstream where flecks of foam arose from a set of rapids that had formed just beneath a low cascade that thundered down the valley. The wind whipped through his dark hair as he got off his steed and walked towards the edge curious and worried as to what might actually have occurred. 

He looked at the area around him, patting his animal gently as it nibbled at some grass contentedly. He was standing over a relatively quieter expanse of water for the river had widened at this spot on its downhill course and the valley itself seemed to have obtained a gentler slope. 

A flash of something dark caught the corner of his eye. He turned and looked upriver. It did not take long to find what had captured his attention. It lay where the rapids had leveled out, half-hidden by the overhanging branches of a tree. Something, or rather someone, lay half in and half out of the water.

He looked carefully again, shading his eyes with his hand trying to confirm whether it was indeed someone and not merely a piece of log. Then he patted his horse gently and led him to stand towards the edge of the forest unwilling to make him trot down the rocky incline and up again for what may be just a large tree trunk.

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The sight of the horn in his hands was enough to nearly send Faramir down the rocks and into the water. He regained his balance by sitting down heavily on a rock, ignoring the damp surface and the spray from the stream as it struck the boulders noisily. He placed his bow down and stared at the horn in a numbed silence.

The horn was a family heirloom from times long before - as long before as the days when kings had ruled in Gondor. It was wrought from the horn of the wild kine of the distant land of Rhun and had been passed down generation after generation to the eldest son of the House of Hurin. Like his father before him and his grandfather before his father, Boromir too carried it wherever he went. Faramir could still hear its ringing above the sound of the seas in Dol Amroth, when they had set off for their journey back to Minas Tirith.

"Where are you?" he whispered softly, taking in his surroundings with increasing dismay. The dark grey of the skies above reflected in the water in front of him, only added to his apprehensiveness. A storm seemed to be approaching and that boded more worry. The slight shiver that went through him was due to more than the cold draughts of air that struck his face.

He rose slowly, breathing heavily trying not to let the scrambled thoughts that assaulted his head form concrete words. He had to think clearly, he decided. 

Boromir would be alright. He was after all, strong and a good swimmer. He had probably just not wished to expend his energy trying to fight such a strong current. The stream would have to level out somewhere. It would make more sense to swim for the shore when the flow slowed down. The horn must have just loosened itself. 

Faramir tucked it carefully into his pack. Boromir would hate it if anything happened to the horn. If he hurried along the water, he would probably find Boromir somewhere on the riverbank - very wet, and in all likelihood, extremely annoyed with himself. He almost smiled as he thought of how Boromir would react to having fallen of a horse. It had not been his fault but he knew his brother well enough to know that that point would not bear consideration.

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It did not take long to reach the spot although the route was a little slippery. He maintained his balance carefully, having no desire to end up in the water himself. He doubted that the weather was conducive to swimming. The rocks gave way to a stretch of wet, soft mud overrun with bushes and small trees.

As he neared the spot, his doubts were confirmed. It was indeed a person. All he could make out was a clump of dark hair and a mass of wet clothes. But the mass did rise and fall sporadically although it stayed still otherwise. Whoever had fallen into the water seemed to have survived, but uninjured or not he could not tell yet. He did however seem unable to move. Pushing his way through the foliage, he reached the seemingly half-drowned figure that lay upon the soft ground. 

He walked swiftly over and turning the figure over, found himself beholding a fairly young countenance. He examined the unconscious figure carefully and decided that what water he might have swallowed had already been coughed out. The clothes were still wet enough to indicate that this was probably the same person he had heard falling into the river earlier.  He wondered whether he had fallen in or been pushed in. But there was still the second person he had heard, the one who had seemed to be searching for this young man.

"But is he your friend or foe?" he wondered aloud as he brushed the damp locks of hair that had matted over the features.

He cocked his head to one side as he cleared the hair away. The wan face he was looking into seemed faintly familiar. He felt he had seen the man somewhere earlier or perhaps he bore resemblance to some long-forgotten acquaintance from his past. He decided it might very well be the latter for he doubted if he had ever seen him before. He was sure he would have remembered him if he had.

A cursory examination did however reveal the reason for his unconsciousness. A purplish hue spread across the left temple stood out clearly even under the dark hair. He had obviously struck his head in the water. He seemed to have few other injuries save for some small cuts and scratches wherever he seemed to have scraped himself. The horseman pulled him clear off the water and half-carried him onto a relatively drier spot under the shade of a scrawny little tree. He stood up, stretched himself, glanced at the still darkening sky and removing his cloak and covered the man from the river with it, to protect him from the stiff northerly breeze. Then he knelt down by his side to examine the bruise to the forehead, carefully.

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Faramir slung the bow over his shoulder and slid carefully down to where the ponies still waited patiently. Thankfully the lightning and thunder seemed to have abated. He would atleast not have to handle a nervous animal in such a case. The ponies quietly followed him over the rocks and around the curve of the stream, coming to a sudden stop when he did, at a place where the water tumbled a few feet into a pool of foam.

It was a waterfall. A tiny one, but a waterfall nevertheless and his brother had probably been dragged down it and into the furious rapids that he could see were raging below.

"Boromir!" he whispered dismayed and then proceeded to shout for his brother at the top of his lungs. His features creased into an expression of exasperation when he realised that his voice could not possibly rise above the noise the water made as it thundered downwards.

He tried to push back the increasing worry that was filling his heart and began the rocky descent along the rocks the water poured over. The spray drenched him to the skin but he ignored it, focusing his attention on keeping his foothold and ensuring that the animals followed him safely. The descent was rapid and he never knew how it was that he managed not to fall straight into the rapids himself. They made it down safely and Faramir carefully began exploring every inch of the water's edge in search of his brother. He even shaded his eyes and looked over the other bank.

Faramir watched the way the cataracts swirled with increasing dismay. Boromir was certainly an excellent swimmer but the waters they were used to swimming in were the stagnant ponds and pools in the city or the sluggish expanse of the Anduin along the Pelennor. There was no sign of him here and he found that as he trudged along, all the unspoken thoughts that he had earlier pushed to the back of his mind came to the fore now. What if Boromir was so badly injured by the fall that he could not swim? That might explain why he had not answered Faramir's calls. He knew there were worse options but they were ones he would not think about until he had seen proof of them. 

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The man finally rocked back on his heels, having checked all the injuries for their seriousness. The only major one seemed to be the one to the temple, for the young man was still unconscious and the rider's efforts to awaken him had been completely futile so far. 

The face still struck an unresponsive chord. There was, the rider felt, some likeness to someone he must have known from earlier. It was obvious the boy was from Gondor and even his wet clothes indicated as such. And the rider had once known many a man of Gondor. The clothes appeared to be those of everyday wear; not very different from what he knew the rangers of the south wore. The scabbard that surprisingly still hung to his belt as well his build, he decided, showed him to certainly be a soldier. And from what he had seen of the marks on his palms, it seemed fairly certain that the sword had seen much use.

After examining the injury once again, the horseman finally rose.

"I need my pack," he muttered, "And my horse, to help carry you to safer ground." It felt a little foolish to speak to one who could probably not hear him but he did so nevertheless. He gave his surroundings another wary look, still uncertain about leaving the soldier alone but seeing no other choice. 

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The rapids finally gave way to a calmer stretch of water as the river basin suddenly widened, and that in turn served to allay Faramir's fears greatly. This looked more like the Anduin to him. A little swifter, yes, but he knew Boromir could handle water like this.

The precipitous cliff had given way to a gentler slope rising above the grassy bank. Small trees and shrubs scrub grew all along the way in little clusters, the wind rustling nosily through their leaves.

"We will find him," he quietly whispered to his pony as she nudged his shoulder gently, "He cannot be far now. He is probably just resting for a while. He must be tired."

The animal grunted softly in response.

Faramir cupped his hands and called out for Boromir once again. This time his voice floated loud and clear carried away from the river by the strong wind blowing through the valley. It hit the thickly forested mountains on either side and resonated long and manifold, almost making Faramir wince with its loudness. The ponies neighed and cocked their heads towards him while he waited. A flock of roosting birds flew angrily out of a cluster of trees above him.

Desperate for an answer, he shouted again, his eyes roving the flowing water searching for any sign of his brother's presence.

When the echoes finally died away, it was as though a complete silence had descended over the valley. Not even a leaf seemed to rustle. 

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The rider reached for the pack tied to his saddle. He never traveled without basic herbs and other material needed for healing common injuries. Injuries were fairly common in his line of work. He was in a hurry to reach his destination but he could not possibly leave someone like that, alone and defenceless and possibly in danger. There was still the second man to be accounted for. It had seemed to him earlier that a note of concern underlay the voice he had heard. But he needed to be sure.

Once the young soldier had been tended to, he could always hasten his own pace and still reach the friend who awaited him, at their pre-appointed time.

He was about to make his way back to the place where he'd left the boy when he heard the shout. It was loud and long, enough to unnerve his mount causing him to reach out and calm him. He stood up straight and tried to make out the direction the voice floated in from. The resonance distracted him and made it difficult to place the direction, but when a second shout came as soon as the first one died out, he had a fair idea of where the second man stood.

It was clearly not very far from where he had left an unconscious and injured man, one unable to defend himself. 

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All Faramir could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. It drowned out the sound of the water, the rumble of the waterfall nearby, the swirling of the cataract, the howling of the icy wind that swept in from the north or even the whinny of a pony right next to his ear. He stared unseeingly along the riverbank taking in the way the branches of the trees on the edge hung like a curtain over the water making it reflect a soothing shade of green.

He never heard the approaching footsteps until it was too late. But it was not entirely his fault. The man who approached him did so with the skill of a ranger, silently and rapidly attacking him from behind, causing a flurry of sounds from the ponies.

By the time Faramir pulled himself out of his distracted state of mind and realised that someone was creeping up on him, his arms had been yanked roughly behind and the cold metallic steel of a blade placed against his throat.

To be continued... 

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_Sorry for the delay once again, but our work lives have been a little too demanding._

The Oboist's Apprentice – Thanks for reviewing! The ponies came into the picture because they're more suited to mountainous terrain.

Shlee Verde – Thank you, that's very kind of you!

Gypsie Rose – Sorry to take such an age to update. Bosses can be real balrogs at times - wingless ones of course! It won't stretch very long, don't worry. It's a pretty short story. You must try guessing;-) Would love to hear what you think! 

IceAngel – glad it helped you! The ages came about from the year it's set in. It's a focal point.

Osheen Nevoy – You do have lovely timing;-) Thanks for such nice words and for pointing out that sentence. You were right about it. It's sorted out now! Glad you liked Faramir's portrayal. It means a lot. And the piece about the horn too. It got a bit of research for another vignette so it got thrown into this story too;-)


	5. Friend or Foe

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 5: Friend or Foe 

The horseman had had no trouble reacting instantly when he realised the man he had found by the river now had company. Never in any of his earlier forays here had these lonely paths been so frequented. First, one, and now here had come another. He had foreseen more stoppage ahead for him.

To locate the source of the cries had been an easy task and a natural wariness had enjoined him to ensure whether the newcomer was a friend or a foe. He had pulled of his cloak and left it with his pack on his horse's saddle. Silence and efficiency were as second nature to him so that it was not until he was right behind his quarry that he had come to be noticed. Ignoring the nip of the chilly breeze, he unsheathed a knife. The other man had seemed to be in anything but an alert state, which made it all the more easier for the horseman, even though his opponent was as well armed as he himself was.

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The smooth curvature of the bow and the leather strap pf the quiver he held in his hand slipped out of Faramir's nerveless fingers as a heavy grip encircled his wrists. The bow hit the ground with a soft sound, its fall cushioned by the grass, followed by the arrows as they fell out of the quiver which in turn joined them on the ground. He heard a scraping sound as the weapons were nudged away by a booted foot. But that was not all the trouble he found he had to cope with.

The sensation of cold steel against flesh was not one unknown to the younger son of the Steward of Gondor, but the intent behind this one blade was. To have a sparring partner's sword or his brother's blade at his throat amounted to the loss of a contest. To have this particular piece of metal poised over a throbbing vein in his neck could mean the loss of much more than just that. He stood very still at first, ignoring the dull ache running through his hands as the grip on them tightened and a tall shape loomed over him. He tried to turn his head around and take a look, hoping almost irrationally that it would be Boromir, even though he knew it was not.

"Do not move," the words spoken in his ear helped nullify that tiny flicker of hope. He had, for a while, in all his worry, forgotten that all forms of unknown danger could lurk in these areas. But he did realise with some little relief that he was atleast not dealing with an Orc or any other foul creature. It was just a man. He had heard of people who used to try and attack travelers and rob them of their belongings but had never expected to actually encounter one.

Faramir might, under normal circumstances, have reacted in a manner different from what he did then. But he was worried for his brother and wearied by the sudden chain of events that had occurred. He felt he had little time for such interruptions, being convinced by now that Boromir must be lying somewhere, badly injured, and that he should aim towards finding him as soon as possible. 

And he was annoyed with himself for letting his guard slip so badly that he had not even heard someone step up behind him until it was too late. He found himself reacting purely by reflex and doing anything but not moving. He fought back in a manner that would have probably have made his instructors wince, trying to bend away from the blade and simultaneously kick his foot backwards, while attempting to wrench his arms away from the vise-like hold. He wanted to try and get hold of his sword or even the hunting knife he always carried in his belt.

The other man seemed to be taken aback by his resistance at first, for he felt his feet encounter bone, heard a few muffled words and then felt the knife hand move away from his throat. 

Any thoughts of overpowering the other man, however, remained short-lived. The grip on his wrists was still being maintained, even as his assailant tried to hold him down while he in turn tried to tear himself away. They overbalanced in their efforts, and Faramir found himself falling heavily onto the grassy surface and pulling the other man down with him. In the background he could hear the animals sound out their worry. 

The fall left him winded and to his annoyance he found that the other man had recovered faster than he had. The momentary distraction had been enough to give his opponent the upper hand. 

He found himself pinned face down to the ground by someone who obviously had greater strength than he did. And was probably taller than him given the way he seemed to tower over Faramir. The surface under him was cold and damp and strewn with small, sharp stones that poked at him through his clothes. His hands were being held behind his back. The grip was not rough, but it was not gentle either, and he had no doubt that if need be, it _could_ become rough.

The wind continued to blow unabated even as Faramir gritted his teeth angrily. He could feel the sword he carried being pulled out of its scabbard and then he heard it being dropped on the grassy bank. He was completely unarmed now unless he could grab hold of one of the arrows that had fallen out of his quiver. A couple of them lay scattered around him; long, thin pieces of wood that had been polished till they shone, their tips sharpened with expert care. His hunting knife too lay tucked in his belt. It was small and not of much use in combat, but it was still something. He had weapons enough around him to defend himself, but to his increasing irritation, no means of reaching them. 

"Who are you?" the stranger asked, his grim tone, breaking in through Faramir's reflections.

He stiffened angrily at the hard edge to the voice; "I could ask you that!" he lashed out, trying to free his wrists.

"You could?" came the reply with what might have been a slight inflexion of amusement to it.

If only he could reach for his sword, or even one of the arrows... if he could just get his hands free, he could try and reach them. He could not. The grip was too strong; stronger even than he had known Boromir's to be.

But his feet were unrestricted. So he kicked out once again, in the direction he felt his assailant stood. He hit what might have been an ankle encased in a supple, leather boot, heard another set of muffled words, and realised with dismay that he had made the stranger trip over his own feet and land on top of him. The man let go of his hands in an effort to balance himself, so Faramir tried to sidle away and sit up. Instead he was hit by the weight of his falling opponent and then found that he was rolling on the mud trying to overpower the stranger, who had no intention of giving up all that easily.

The river flowed incessantly on by them, continuing to pound through the valley. An instinct for self-preservation manifested itself in both men as they ensured they rolled away from it. The wind rushed through Faramir's ears noisily, and he felt the mud underneath sink beneath their combined weights as he and his unknown opponent fought it out. Above them the sky remained a moody grey.

They hit a small shrub, squashing it flat even as its sharps twigs scratched them. The other man was taller and hardier, _and_ armed. And moreover, Faramir realised that his cloak kept coming in his way. It obstructed his hand from reaching for his belt and pulling out his knife.

So he struck out a hand and groped around for the arrows instead, until he felt his fingers close around smooth wood. He grabbed the projectile and brought it up, lashing out at the other man's face. Unfortunately, the man's reflexes were not found wanting either. He ducked the pointed edge with alacrity and threw himself backwards. The otherwise fruitless exercise did, however, give Faramir a chance to get away from his opponent's hold. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and stumbled backwards, still holding the arrow in one hand. Leveraging his hands against the sodden ground for balance, he felt steel under his palm instead of grass and clutched at his sword in relief. He dropped the arrow and swatted away his bothersome cloak. Then he picked up the sword, and clenching his fingers tight around its hilt, stood up slowly and steadily as he took in his first view of his attacker, who too had managed to stand up now.

He had not been sure what to expect, but to find one who looked so much _unlike_ a complete fiend was a little unexpected. The man in front of him was, as Faramir had guessed, tall in height but looked much like any ordinary person. Although, perhaps he might not have been entirely ordinary for he still maintained the stance of a fighting man. And ordinary men did not often rove these mountains alone and atop such a fine horse as the one that stood by the water, patiently nibbling at grass. The clothes he wore were not dissimilar to the clothes Faramir wore, but they were not similar either. The man himself could easily have passed as one from Gondor. In fact, he looked almost like a ranger. He appeared to have traveled a long way and his general mien was that of one accustomed to long, uncomfortable journeys.

He had now pulled out his sword too, the hold on it displaying the expertise of a seasoned warrior. His face held a stern expression that soon turned to one of some degree of surprise. 

"You are just a child!" he exclaimed.

Faramir nearly dropped his sword when he heard that. He did not lose his composure often but the words he heard were not words he cared to hear. He might not be as tall as Boromir and he was by all means younger than this man, but he was no child. He was, after all, a ranger. He moved forward a little, his fingers clenched around his sword hilt, giving the stranger a hard stare, daring him to stop him.

"What do you want?" he asked, unable to hide the anger he felt. The man in front of him hardly looked like a common highwayman.  

"What do _you_ want here?" the other man countered. 

Faramir glanced at him warily, instinctively taking up a half-crouching position so he could defend himself from a sudden attack. And then he realised, with horror that he had, in all the fuss, more or less forgotten about Boromir. Anything could have happened in all this time. He was not even sure how much time had elapsed. It had seemed like a matter of a few seconds but now, he was not sure. Every moment he spent tarrying here was a moment wasted. He could not afford to delay any longer. As a further reminder that things could get worse, the skies rumbled ominously.

He took a step forward, towards the ponies that still stood nervously by the riverside as the thunder died away slowly.

The horseman watched cautiously as the boy stepped forward, holding the sword in his hand. He might have been just a boy, but the stranger had seen much of the world. Mere youth was no guarantee that the boy had no ulterior motive in searching for the man from the river. He seemed to have no qualms over fighting back or over displaying a little belligerence. Very calmly, the man moved till he was blocking the other's path.

"Let me go," the younger one said, grasping the hilt of his sword tight.

"Who are you and what do you want here?" the horseman repeated, intentionally adopting a sterner tone of voice.

It did not seem to impact the youth, however. 

"You are not from here," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "Might I ask you what it is _you _do here, kind sir?"

"What are you searching for here?" the stranger asked, ignoring Faramir's words.

"I am not searching for anything," came the prompt reply, a very prompt reply, too soon and too abrupt.

Faramir had had no intention of revealing to this man that his brother was around somewhere, possibly injured. That was a risk he was unwilling to take.

"You seem to be in great haste," the man remarked in a smooth tone.

"I _am_ in great haste. I have far to go yet and you stand in my way. I do not know what you want but I have nothing save these weapons and those ponies but I need them in my travel," Faramir said trying desperately to quell the increasing disquiet he felt rearing up inside him.

"Are you not searching for somebody, then?" the stranger asked ominously, "Or do you often travel with two mounts?"

"And if I am searching for someone, what of it?" he countered mutinously, noting with worry that the weather seemed to be worsening.

"Why do you search for him?" the stranger asked infuriatingly. He continued to block Faramir's path but made no move to attack him making him wonder whether he might not have been correct in assessing him as an ordinary man riding in the mountains.

Faramir took a deep breath, "I have spent too much time here already. Would you make way for me, or would you have me fight you?" he asked, indicating the sword.

"Is that how the boy fell?" the stranger asked, his eyes hard, "Did you fight him or did you perhaps push him down?" He pointed his own sword at Faramir, who had moved forward.

A streak of lightning lit up the dull expanse above almost in accompaniment to the sharp words. 

To be continued... 

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Shlee Verde – glad you like it;-)

Susan – Still not very nice, is he? Not yet unfortunately;-)

Rose – Well, then hope you keep enjoying it!;-)


	6. Metal and Water

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 6: Metal and Water 

Faramir clutched at the hilt of his sword, feeling his heart clench at the words he had just heard. A clap of thunder followed the brilliant streak of lightning making a storm seem even more imminent. He ignored it. So did the stranger. A stiff breeze blew his hair onto his face, but he ignored that too. The sharp point of a sword glinted unwaveringly in front of his chest. That too went unheeded. So did the soft snorting of the three mounts nearby.

The stranger had mentioned a boy. A boy who had fallen down? Boromir was no child either but he _was_ younger than the stranger. Boromir had been found, apparently. But the short burst of elation that that thought induced was promptly replaced by wariness. He still had no inkling of the other man's intentions.

"Where is he?" the words came out of his mouth almost immediately.

The sword remained where it was, unmoving, and he realised abstractedly that whoever the stranger was, he was certainly an experienced swordsman, for the hand on the hilt was absolutely still.

"He? Did you not say you were travelling alone?" there seemed to be a faint mocking tone underlying the words, though Faramir wondered whether he might not have imagined it.

He blinked in annoyance. He had inadvertently let the words slip. It was not something he was normally in the habit of doing. But he was worried.

And he was afraid, for Boromir.

"How did he fall?" the stranger asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Where is he?" Faramir repeated, clenching his teeth. 

"How did he fall?" the other man repeated annoyingly.

"What have you done to him?" he could not keep the raw edge out of his voice.

The stranger's eyes continued to bore down at him mercilessly, "You seem very worried," he remarked.

"I am," came the markedly level reply.

"Are you worried that he might have survived after you pushed him down?" the hold on the sword remained steadfast.

Faramir nearly backed away at the words. The sword followed his movements. 

"You think _I_ pushed him down?" 

"It could be a possibility," the stranger mused.

Faramir was usually not lacking in patience, or in holding his own during a conversation. But at that moment he seemed to have lost both abilities. It seemed to him that he had been standing there at sword point for almost an eternity. And that the man in front of him seemed to be playing some sort of a deliberately slow moving game. Either he actually thought he had harmed Boromir or the stranger himself had some other ulterior motive. Whatever the reality might have been, Faramir found his normally clear and precise mind in disarray. There appeared to be only one way to end this strange predicament. It was not a method he would have normally opted for, but his circumstances could hardly have been called normal.

He swung his own sword up to swipe away the offending piece of metal pointed at him.

"I would never do that!" he grunted, as he put his full strength behind the blow, in his anger.

His thrust was neatly and skillfully parried away in a seemingly effortless manner. Metal hit metal with frightening force.  The harsh impact jarred Faramir's wrist and traveled all the way up his arm painfully. It was not an unfamiliar sensation but such a magnitude of force behind it certainly was. He found himself struggling to maintain his balance on the wet grass underneath his feet, while at the same time hold onto the hilt of his sword. 

The swinging arc of steel kissed the air perilously close to his neck. It had a sobering effort on him. He tried to calm down. Perhaps he had been stupid in starting off this fight, but start it off he had and he might as well continue with it, he reasoned to himself, even as his feet scrabbled on the soft surface underneath. He lunged with his sword once again, this time relying less on instinct and more on thoughtful planning. 

He did, however, have a formidable opponent.

The lunge was dealt with as effectively as the earlier thrust. The impact jarred his arm yet again, but he ignored the continued pain.

The skies chose that moment to burst. And they did so with spectacular effect. Faramir had heard of these sudden, heavy storms in the mountains. He just wished he could have observed them in their complete glory at some other time. The man in front of him did not seem unduly bothered. They regarded each other warily through the endless stream of water. A little distance away, three impatient animals reared up noisily, and stamped around fitfully.

"You waste my time," Faramir ground out. He found the situation getting more and more desperate. 

It was evident his brother was somewhere in the vicinity and it just as evident that he was unaware that Faramir was nearby. That, in itself, was enough to worry Faramir. That he was embroiled in a swordfight with a complete stranger who seemed to somehow have entangled himself in the entire affair was an added concern. And now the rain seemed intent on causing more trouble, not just for him but also, he was sure, for Boromir wherever he was.

"And you, child, waste mine," was the only response.

Faramir felt the other man's sword swing past his shoulder, missing the flesh and cutting through the soft cloth of his cloak instead. The action seemed almost deliberate to him for he was sure from what he had seen of his opponent's skill, that he would not make such a miss, but he had little time to think about that. Instinctively backing away, he found the sword had caught onto the cloth of the cloak. He felt a tugging motion as the wet fabric tore away. He tried to attack while the cloaked figure disentangled his weapon, but found that even then he was not quick enough. 

He found himself being pushed back as the metal repeatedly swung dangerously close to him, each time coming close enough to strike him, but then just missing out, for some reason he could not understand. It was almost as though the man were trying not to hurt him but perhaps to just disarm him. It was something Faramir himself had often done during his lessons. He had invariably tended to disarm rather than injure whomever he had fought. It was, however, not a tactic he had found he could use while fighting in a real battleground.

They were nearing closer to the water's edge and he found himself leaping backwards on the pebble-strewn shoreline. The rain continued to fall incessantly, and he could feel wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead and neck. The sensation was annoying but he could not allow it to disturb his concentration, especially since the stranger was totally unaffected by it.

It was when he leaned too far backwards to avoid a thrust at his shoulder that he found himself slipping. He twisted desperately, trying to avoid falling into the water and at the same time keeping a lookout on his opponent while simultaneously hanging on to his weapon. His balance was the first to give way.

He fell flat on his back, hitting the grassy bank at the water's edge, and the back of his head came in contact with the dampening ground in a sudden and swift motion. He grunted at the stab of pain induced by the contact but managed to retain his sword in his hand. The tiny, sharp-edged stones lying among the fronds of grass bit into his back and shoulders as he tried to regain his breath, and clear his half-dazed mind. The rain splattered down on his face relentlessly.

The stranger stepped forward quickly and for the second time in such a short while, Faramir found himself facing a steady, unmoving piece of shining, pointed metal. 

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The man in the grey cloak had not been entirely sure what course of action to follow once he had confirmed the new arrival did indeed know of the man he had found in the river. It did, however, take a while for him to realise that the young man opposite him seemed to consider him in the same light as he considered him – possibly dangerous.

By the time he had figured that out however, he found himself parrying off the boy's attacking sword. The rain fell steadily around him and he remembered the other man lying under the shade of the trees. He was probably getting soaked and that could not possibly be good for him. The best thing to do, he decided, was to end this little skirmish. He was after all, the better swordsman between them from all appearances. 

The young man was trained in swordsmanship. He was sure of that from the way he gripped his weapons, but he decided, he was still learning. The thrusts were skillful but they did not have the comfortable ease that came either naturally or after long months of usage. Perhaps, he preferred to use a bow, he wondered as he remembered seeing an excellently crafted one slip out of his hands. 

And, the stranger realised suddenly, he was not aiming to kill, or even to injure. It did not take him long to realise that the boy in front of him might have seen fighting but not to a great extent. He doubted if he had ever killed anyone by his sword yet. He found himself fighting back in a similar manner, trying to disarm him but not hurt him, wondering if he had not been a little too cautious in assuming that the man he had found in the river had not fallen in by accident. 

The boy seemed to be tiring and he decided it would be easier to exchange a few explanations once he managed to get him to lower his sword. When he did finally get him down, it did not escape his eyes that he had not quite succeeded in disarming him in the process. The sword still lay gripped tight in his hand even as the head and shoulders hit the ground. The dull sound of the impact almost made him cringe, and he nearly lowered his guard. 

The young man was struggling to rise. He moved forward swiftly, and held the blade calmly at his throat. The rain continued unabated.

"Lay down your sword. I am not going to hurt you," he said, scrutinizing the guarded expression on his face. He held out his other hand to help him up. 

The boy stared back at him, with a completely unreadable expression on his face. He seemed to be assessing what to make of the words he had just heard and of the proffered hand. The set look still on his face, he finally let go of his weapon, and brushing away the helping hand stood up on his own, grimacing a little and rubbing the back of his head in annoyance.

The rider waited cautiously. He was quite sure, from what he had seen so far, that the young man was not one to retract without thought unless the provocation went too far. Perhaps his earlier words had done just that.

"Where is he? Have you hurt him? What do you want with us?" the boy spoke without preamble, as he swiped at his wet face with his sleeve, to no avail. Strands of wet hair hanging dankly around a tired face were brushed off irritably.

"He is not hurt," the man replied in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, but kept his sword out.

He watched the face in front of him carefully as he spoke. The previously inscrutable features changed for the barest minute. It seemed to be a look of relief, but he needed to be certain. The puddles around them grew progressively larger.

"Not very badly, that is," he continued to watch the younger man, who in turn was watching him intently.

Worry tinged the bright grey eyes.

"What have you done with him?" The fists were clenched, and the voice was steady but the faintest flash of fear seemed to cross the boy's eyes.

"He was hurt when I found him by the river. He must have hit his head on a rock. How did he fall in?"

"He slipped. His pony was scared, and he lost his balance. We were further upstream-," came the soft reply, "Where is he now? What do you want with him?"

"I just want to help him. What do _you_ want with him?"

He received an incredulous look in return, "We were travelling together!"

"He is your friend?" He had to make sure one more time.

The reply came in an exasperated tone, "He is my brother. He fell. I saw him fall, but the current carried him too far too soon. So I followed the stream till here."

"How do I know you speak the truth?" the traveler asked.

"I do not utter falsehoods," came the steely reply, "Now, will you take me to him? It is raining, and you say he is hurt."

The man looked at him appraisingly, and then finally lowered his sword. There did seem to be some resemblance.

"You do look a little like him," he acknowledged. 

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Thanks for the reviews!

Susan – No, he wouldn't react very well would he?;-)

Anita – Wargs would be a very welcome addition to the menagerie;-) The oliphaunts will like them.

Shlee Verde –Communicate? Typical males indeed! ;-) Hope the chapter was interesting enough

Rose – See, no real cliffhanger in this one.;-) There are a couple of events that year, aren't there? You're right though. Someone needs help somewhere. And this guy is always very helpful.


	7. Reunion

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 7: Reunion

"He is not far from here," the stranger said, his tone still a little cautious, despite his assurance that he believed Faramir, "I will take you where I left him," he continued as he moved towards his horse, carefully avoiding stepping into the puddles.

Faramir had decided he also had no choice but to trust this man. If he had indeed found his brother then all would be well. So far, the man had seemed worthy of some measure of trust. If his intention had been to cause either of them harm, then he would probably have done so earlier when he had had the chance. He decided that if the stranger's intent did prove to be harmful later, then he would simply face the situation as best as he could. For now, he could do no more than stay alert and be wary of any possible danger.

He ran a dripping sleeve across his wet face, noticed the tiny rips across his clothes dispassionately and then wearily set about picking up his scattered pieces of weaponry. He restored his sword to its scabbard, picked up the new bow, relieved to find it unscathed, and then proceeded to retrieve the arrows, strewn all over the bank. The feathers attached to their ends for balance, hung drenched and limp. He put them carefully into the quiver; a part of him worried over how his brother might be faring and another part of him irritated at the fact that despite such a wide ranging choice in armoury, he had still been brought down with relative ease. The other man might have been a more accomplished swordsman but the thought still rankled.

He returned to gather up the ponies' reins and watched as the other man pulled on his cloak and fastened with it a star shaped pin. He was quite certain now that this man was a soldier, or more likely, a ranger. His clothes and the way he handled his horse, suggested as such, and the way he had managed to silently quarry him earlier, strengthened the belief. 

He waited for him to lead the way, and when they set off, tried to straighten out his confused thoughts. The rain fell in a steady downpour as he followed him to the place where he claimed to have left Boromir. It drummed down rhythmically, making little difference to him for he had been soaked to the skin already. He could feel his cloak hang heavily as it became progressively wetter. The softened ground sank under his booted feet, making walking slower, and he noticed the other man faced the same problem. The three mounts they tugged along, however, seemed to find the going easier. 

Boromir lay under a small tree; it's scrawny branches providing no shelter from the rain. Faramir darted forward and knelt by his brother's side, an intense relief coursing through him at just the sight. But then the pallor of the face struck him.

"Boromir," he whispered, very softly, unsure why he did so. His brother remained still. He grasped a cold, wet hand and squeezed it gently, taking some comfort from the beat of his pulse. Brushing the wet strands of hair away from his face, he examined the dark bruise that stood out clearly on the forehead, with worry. It was an ugly discolouration on the left temple spreading out from under the dark hairline almost as far as the left eyebrow. No other injury seemed apparent save minor scratches, but those did not worry him as much as this did. He could not remember a time when Boromir had not sported some cut or scratch, more so after he had taken up his duties with the army. He was used to seeing Boromir return home, sporting some new injury or signs of a healing one, but he was completely unused to seeing him lying like this, unmoving. 

He looked at him intently for a few seconds, almost willing him to open his eyes and assure him that he was alright. Instead, Boromir's eyes stayed shut. Footsteps sounded out behind him, as boots slapped against wet grass.

"Why does he not awake?" he asked unhappily, distrust forgotten in his concern.

"He has hit his head," the other man pointed out, "But he does not seem to have suffered any other injury."

Faramir stayed kneeling on the ground, biting his lip uncertainly, as he wondered what to do. Now that he had found his brother, he was partly relieved. But the relief was fast being replaced by worry at the condition he was in. "He is wet," he stated unnecessarily.

"He fell into the river," came the quiet reply from right behind him, "_And_ it is raining quite heavily."

He almost jumped. In his worry over Boromir he had forgotten to watch the other man's movements and he had not even noticed him walk up right behind him. He berated himself silently for his sudden lapse in concentration; it was the second time had had allowed that to happen. A part of him wondered curiously where the man had picked up such skills.

"We should move him to a drier place," he mused, and then looked around him. There was, quite naturally, not a dry spot to be seen.

The horseman nodded, "Perhaps further up the cliff. I saw some rocks there. We might find shelter under them."

He nodded at that. It made ample sense to shelter from the rain for now. When it stopped, they could set out again. Their original intention had been to follow the stream, for that path was one that wound through the hills to lead to the highway to the city. If Boromir did not wake up soon, it would be best to take him home as soon as he could, where the healers would know what to do. He could tend to cuts and broken bones but what little he had seen or experienced of head injuries had been enough to tell him that they could be unpredictable. 

He himself had once slipped in the courtyard of the citadel, after a heavy downpour had left water pooling on the stones, and hit his head on the hard surface. When he had woken up the next day, he could remember nothing of what had happened after he had fallen. But Boromir had claimed that he had been unhurt and had risen immediately and had been awake all day, attended all his lessons, _and_ had an excellent session in the archery court. Faramir however could remember neither the lessons nor the excellent stint with bow and arrow. It was not until he spoke to his tutors that he had realised that his brother had not been teasing him. When Boromir had found out he remembered nothing of the day before, he had told their father, and Faramir had had to spend the rest of that day fussed over by the healers who would not even let him read. He knew he had been lucky in not being affected any worse than that. He just hoped Boromir would recover without any after effects.

He almost jumped again as he felt a hand on his shoulder. His hand reached for his sword, relaxing a little when he realised it was the horseman. The man spread out his hands, as though to indicate that he meant no harm.

"We will have to move him out of the rain."

Faramir drew back, nodding his head, unable to bring himself to speak much. He just wanted to get Boromir home, and a part of him wanted simply to thank the stranger very firmly for pulling his brother out of the water, load him onto his pony, and set off. But it was late. Even without the rain, there would not be much light in the sky, and he could not risk travelling at night.  Not on such steep trails, and that after they had already had an accident. He looked up through the sheet of water in front of him. He could see the trail following the stream cut into the mountainside. 

The horseman followed his gaze and seemed to divine what he was thinking, "You shall have to wait until the sun rises again," he said in a gentle tone.

"He needs a healer," he found himself replying almost stubbornly.

"You cannot travel through this rain. It would be better if you took shelter for the night. I know something of healing. Will you let me help him?"

He could see no other choice in front of him, "How far up the cliff did you see these rocks?" he asked resignedly. They would have had to spend the night in the hills anyway. He had just not thought that they might have company, and least of all, a type of company that he did not quite know what to make of.

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They found a cave-like not far from the forest the rider had come through. He had noticed the rocks cursorily earlier, but had never expected to be detained in this area for so long that he might have had to use the shelter they offered. He noted to their satisfaction that it was near the trail too, so that they had not had to deviate too far from their route. They had hoisted the injured man onto one of the ponies, and he noticed that the younger one kept a firm hand on the reins and remembered what he had mentioned about the animal slipping.

It had not taken him more than a glance at the boy's face and the reaction he exhibited when they had reached the still figure under the tree, to convince him that there was no danger from that quarter. The resemblance too showed up even more when he saw them together, and the feeling that they reminded him of someone returned with greater ferocity. He realised he did not know their names. He had heard the younger one murmur something to his brother, but could not decipher the words clearly over the rain. He kept silent about it, however. As yet, the younger one had not thought to inquire after _his_ name, and he wanted to keep it that way.

The light was fairly dim now. Rain continued to pour down on them, but with a reduced intensity that seemed to indicate the storm might pass soon. The enclosure the rocks formed was small, barely something resembling walls and a roof. It would probably not to keep them entirely dry, but it did seem capable of keeping most of the rain out. The floor was damp, but not soaking wet like the ground outside. The animals stood patiently near the entrance seemingly not bothered by the rain.

He helped lower the injured man down. Water squelched out of their boots and cloaks. It was going to be a cold, damp night.

"I have some blankets in my pack," he offered, "It will get cold at night."

"We have spare cloaks," came a distrait reply, "He has not awoken yet."

He knelt down and looked over the elder brother more thoroughly, "He sleeps peacefully," he said calmly, "I think you have little cause for worry."

"How do you know that?" the boy replied in an annoyed tone, "What if he is badly hurt? I should get him back to Minas Tirith," he continued worriedly, "And Father might start to worry."

"Is that where you live?" the stranger asked more to keep him from worrying than out of curiosity.

It seemed to him that the boy started at that. 

"Was it meant to be a secret?" he asked, a little amused. He was obviously not deemed trustworthy yet.

The boy stiffened. "No," he admitted, "Do you really think he will be alright?" there was almost a pleading tone to the voice.

"You cannot ride through the night," he repeated, "Leave for Minas Tirith in the morning. Mayhap the rain shall have ceased by then." 

The boy sat down next to him, a dry cloak in his hand; worry still creasing his face. The rider glanced at him and then spoke.

"I mean no harm. I am merely a traveller through these lands as you are," he said calmly, as he rocked back on his heels.

The boy nodded, his face completely expressionless. Then he removed the wet cloak off his brother and used the dry one to cover him up. Then, he very gently wiped a few dead leaves and some dirt off his face.

"What brings you through these routes?" he asked suddenly, "They are but rarely used in these times."

The man sighed soundlessly. He had had a feeling that this one might be an inquisitive one.

"I was on my way to visit an old friend," he replied calmly.

"I would not detain you longer than necessary then," came a very polite reply, "I am sure he awaits you."

"He is very wise. He will see the rain and understand that I have been delayed," he said drily. He thought that induced a slight colour in the boy's cheeks, from anger or embarrassment he could not tell. The dark head bent down swiftly. It was, he decided, going to be a cold, damp and long night. 

He sat back against the wall, and realised a pair of very curious eyes were trained on him. Having no desire to answer any more questions, he resorted to the easiest tactic to divert attention, by leaning forward and looking closely at the sleeping man, "I think I should be able to bring the swelling down. Do you think you might be able to find some dry wood outside? We shall need a fire." 

"We carry kindling with us, and a little wood. It is not much though, for we had not far to ride." 

"That will do," he said decisively.

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The fire was small and some distance away from him, but its very sight was soothing to Faramir's tired eyes. The rain outside had petered down to a drizzle that pattered down in an irritating beat. Night would fall soon. There was only a pale sliver of light outside.

He stayed by Boromir's side, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, elbows on his knees, and chin resting in his hands, feeling extremely worried. He was not used to such a long period of silence when his brother was around. Every now and then he darted stole a glance at the quiet rider, who was now bent over some kind of boiling liquid over the flames. It smelt dreadful but, to his knowledge, most medicinal brews did so. The man did not seem to mean them any harm, as yet.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had still not asked him his name. Nor where it was he came from. A fact that he realised bothered him greatly, for no known reason. He decided it was the unlikely combination of his looks, garb and skills with his horse and sword that confused him.

He was about to address him when he heard a small sound emanate from Boromir's mouth.

To be continued...

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Apologies once again for delaying the update. Not much left to go. Thanks everyone for the reviewing

Susan – you do believe correctly;-) But he's bright, he really is, honest.

Anita – No cliffie this time either. The zoo sounds very nice. 

IceAngel – Rain's nice, isn't it? Ff.net ate up your review but the mail come through.

Rose – Phew! Glad to hear that came out alright. It *is* hard to believe isn't it? Thanks! Don't worry, no more cliffhangers ahead, most probably. Another chapter or two, and the tension will be completely gone;-)

Elaine – Nice to hear that. Thanks for the mail:-)


	8. Fireside Conversations

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 8: Fireside Conversations

In such a tiny enclosed space, any sort of sound would seem to resonate. Even that soft mumble from Boromir seemed to Faramir as loud as each crack of thunder that had assailed his ears all day long, but definitely more pleasing.

"Boromir!" he turned to his brother's side once again, relieved to atleast hear something of his voice.

There was no response at first, making him wonder whether he had imagined the sound. Then another illegible murmur reached his ears. He leant forward wondering whether he ought to force his brother to wake up.

"Boromir? Can you hear me?" he asked softly.

"Yes. Go back to sleep," the words were slurred but he could make them out, and that gave him enough cause for relief. But the eyes still remained shut.

"Boromir, wake up!"

"Why?" came the slightly clearer reply, and this time they eyes did open, a little dazed but focussed upon Faramir.

"Are you alright, Boromir? Do you hurt anywhere? Can you hear me?" he asked rapidly.

"Faramir, anyone could hear you if you were to speak as loudly as this," Boromir tried to raise himself but ended up falling back with a groan.

"Do you hurt anywhere?" Faramir repeated worriedly.

His brother, however, was more interested in other matters.

"Where are we?" he asked looking up at the stone roof above him.

"We needed shelter for the night. It is raining outside."

"Why did we need shelter?" came the confused response, "Oh wait, I remember... we were on our way home!"

"How do you feel?"

"Did you awaken me to ask me how I felt?" his brother said groggily, and then with a hint of alertness, "Surely, the storm did not scare you?"

"Of course not!" Faramir responded indignantly, "Do you not remember? You fell – into the river."

That induced another half-groan, "Yes, I do, now. How did _you_ get here? You did not jump in too, did you, Faramir?"

"No, I came down the path."

"Are you alright then?"

"Yes, I am. But you were hurt and I am worried. How do you feel?" he asked, the words coming out in a rush, because Boromir hardly seemed to be listening.

"Good," Boromir said calmly, "I have a headache. Why do you not rest for the night now, and we can set off for home in the morning."

It occurred to Faramir that his brother probably had a very vague memory of might have happened. Before he could say another word, however, Boromir had shut his eyes and seemingly fallen asleep.

"Is he awake?" 

He had almost forgotten about his new acquaintance. 

"Nay, he is asleep again. But I think he shall be alright now."

"I am glad to hear that. He is certain to fare better after a night's rest," the man said quietly.

"Yes."

"I have some food to eat. If you would like some before you retire for the night-?"

"I shall keep the first watch," he blurted out. It appeared safe here, but from even a short span of life as a soldier, he knew that appearances could be defective. 

"That shall not be necessary," came the firm reply, "I am well used to keeping long watches in the night."

"As am I," he retorted stubbornly. 

"Very well," came the resigned statement, "I shall take the next one then."

It was after a while that they sat around the flickering flames of the tiny fire, munching some of the food from the provisions they carried. The stranger had made Faramir apply the sticky residue from the liquid he had brewed to the lump on his brother's head, assuring him that it was a very old cure for just that sort of injury, and that it would lessen his headache. Boromir had slept all through, and now the two of them sat near the entrance to the little enclosure, watching glumly as little droplets of water continued to drip slowly and annoyingly over the sodden ground outside. 

He chewed morosely at a damp, soggy piece of bread that seemed to have lost all its taste, and stared glumly outside at the dark shadowy shapes of the trees. His new acquaintance was examining his bow with great interest.

"It is very well-crafted," he said appreciatively, "Do you get the like in Gondor?"

"They make it in the mountains," he replied evasively, wishing he could grab his weapon out of the other man's hands. It was after all, he reasoned, his bow, and more so a bow that Boromir had specially bought for him, going so far as to deviate from their journey home. If they had not taken the diversion, none of this would have happened. The thought made him feel even more miserable, so that he finally reverted to sitting with his elbows on his knees and chin cupped in his hands. 

He supposed he ought to be glad Boromir was safe and well. Somewhere in the back of his mind, all through the ordeal, he had wondered what his father might have to say about it. It had not been a pleasant matter to ponder upon, so he had avoided thinking of Denethor altogether. Or of how he might explain to him that his eldest son and heir had been lost or injured badly in an accident so ludicrous in nature that to explain it would merely make it seem even more stupid. He was atleast spared of that ordeal now. Boromir looked to recover well enough. And the rain had stopped. They could leave at first light. If Boromir still felt a little unwell, the pony could carry him. And this time, he resolved, he would make sure he kept an eye on it. If need be, he would take the reins in his hand and walk the animal all the way to Minas Tirith.

The hiss of a piece of damp kindling in the fire roused him from his thoughts. He looked up to see the rider fingering the brooch he had seen him wear, a stern expression on his grave face, even as he hummed a somewhat familiar lay, tunelessly, under his breath. A star, he mused to himself, to hold the cloak in place. He had heard of that somewhere else, but he could not remember where. But it was not uncommon to use finely carved pin to hold mantles and cloaks in place so he assumed he might have seen someone else wear it. He suddenly remembered he still knew nothing about this man.

"Your brother must be a very hardy soldier. He is recovering swiftly," the stranger spoke up, before he could.

"How did you know he was a soldier?" Faramir asked, and then bit his lip as he realised how abrupt he might have sounded.

He got an amused look in return, "His clothing... and his weaponry. As are you, I believe."

Faramir gave him a short nod in return, "Yes he is. And a very good one, too." That might have sounded as his pride speaking, he realised for he did admire his brother in his abilities, but he knew it was also the truth. There were few of his brother's age or perhaps even older, who could match him.

It brought a smile to the other man's face, "I am sure he is," he said in a tone so solemn that for a second Faramir wondered whether he was jesting. But he continued in a level voice, "Then Gondor is fortunate she has such men to defend her."

"Yes, she is."

"That is good to hear," it was spoken very softly, "She needs them, does she not?"

"More than she needs anything else, I think," he found himself replying, "But then, do they not need such everywhere?"

He wondered if he sounded like his father right then. It was something he had heard often in his childhood, of how his land needed soldiers and not dreamers, swordsmen and not poets and most of all, she needed rulers who could be intelligent _and_ brave, thinkers _and_ warriors.

"Aye, they do," the other man acknowledged, "Hardy soldiers and strong rulers."

"Gondor has both," he answered calmly.

The man nodded in response, and then his eyes strayed back to the brooch in his hands. Faramir watched him for a while, and then looked dully at the miserable fire, before he realised that in all the conversation so far, the man had learnt something of him, but he had learnt nothing of the man yet. Intuition had told him he could probably have faith in him, but he had repeatedly been requested to take a more practical view of things. And besides, it gave him something to turn his mind to.

"Where are you from? Not from these parts, I can see," he broached the question.

 "No, I come from north of here," came the vague response, much as he had expected. He had had a feeling that he was unlikely to get to know anything of significance from this man even if he tried. He wanted to make an attempt nevertheless.

"From Rohan?" that might, he thought, explain the competent horsemanship.

"I have lived there once," came another reply, as evasive in its tone as the earlier one.

"But you do no more?" Faramir found he was getting more and more curious. He could not help but wonder why the man should bother to be secretive about his doings, unless his intent was ill. But everything he had done so far indicated otherwise. He was sure this was just an ordinary traveller. Perhaps, he thought, the man just did not like strangers. After all, Faramir himself had been wary of him when they had first come across each other. And just because he was older it did not imply that he too might not be like mind when coming across a complete stranger in such a remote area. It would be nothing out of the ordinary to behave so, and these were after all, no ordinary times. There were enough dangers and enough fell folk roving the land to warrant caution.

"No, I live there no more," the response came after a very long pause during which the man had thoughtfully attempted to stoke the nearly dying fire a little, with marginal success. 

"Then where do you live now? You look to be a soldier too, a ranger perhaps? What brings you here, to the high mountains?" he persisted, though he had deduced by now that he could not expect a clear response.

The stranger took a deep breath before replying, "I spend my time travelling in the north," he said calmly, "I came to visit an old friend in these parts."

"We do not get many visitors from the north," Faramir mused. There were traders who came over the west road and a few other visitors, but even they were from Rohan, and never beyond that, "What is the land like?" he asked interestedly.

"Much as it is here," came the firm reply.

He wanted to know more, but then the man arose, and swung his cloak around his soldiers, "I am afraid you must excuse me now, lad, but I fear I must leave early on the morrow, and I understand you would do so too. You wished to take the first watch, did you not? I shall relieve you after that."

And with that Faramir was left to face the dying fire, and to think of other matters. He did not fail to notice however that the other man was not completely asleep, and that his hand rested lightly upon his scabbard. 

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The morning dawned bright and clear. The skies were cloudless barring a few stray wisps of white. The only sign of the previous day's storm was the wet grass and the sight of trees weighed down by the water in their leaves and the raging sound of the stream that seemed to have doubled in quantity.

Faramir awoke to find his brother stirring a little. The only sign of their other companion was his saddlebag, lying near the embers of the fire. 

He knelt next to Boromir, wondering whether to wake him. He did want to leave soon. Delaying their return to Minas Tirith any longer would mean they would have to start explaining many things to their father. In the clear light of day, Faramir suddenly began to wonder how he could have so trusted a complete stranger. It was true there were no laws, as yet, in Gondor, dictating who could wander through her mountains and fields, but he had a feeling that might be seen as beside the point.

"He seems much better now."

Faramir turned towards the stranger, who was picking up his bag, and rose, "Yes, he does."

"You will leave for Minas Tirith soon?"

He nodded.

"Are you certain he can ride?"

"The pony can carry him," he said emphatically. Boromir looked well, but he still wanted to get him back to the city as soon as he could. They were not far now; he had seen that. If they left now, they would be there well before noon.

They were standing outside now.

"This road goes on to meet the highway to Minas Tirith," Faramir said, "We have not far to go."

The man adjusted his cloak; "Then, I shall part with you here, for I must follow the trail towards Lossarnach."

Faramir accompanied him to his horse and watched him fix the saddle, humming the same tuneless notes he had heard last night. He recognised it now as one of the lays on Nimrodel that the minstrels in Dol Amroth had sung often, "You go to Lossarnach to meet a friend?"

"Yes, indeed, I do."

It reminded him that he too had a friend who was visiting Lossarnach. Mithrandir was probably there from what the soldiers they had met while riding out had told them. The flowery vale seemed suddenly to have become a place of interest to many folk, and he almost wondered at the coincidence, but then shook his head at the thought.

"Farewell," the man said to him solemnly and bowed slightly before turning to his horse.

"I thank you for your help," Faramir said formally, and then after a small pause, added, "I do not know your name."

"And I do not know yours."

"Faramir," he said simply.

"They call me Strider in the north," the stranger replied, as he jerked his reins, and raised a hand in farewell.

"Farewell then, till we meet again," Faramir said reflexively and then wondered why he had said that. It was not something he said often, except to his brother.

He got a thoughtful look in return and then a short nod, before the horse cantered away.

Faramir stared after the retreating figure of the horse and the rider, before murmuring, "That is a strange name."

He returned to his brother to find him wide-awake, and attempting to pull on his boots.

To be continued...

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It is unfortunately the usual excuse... not to mention ff.net acting up...

Susan – Strider it is then. And Faramir has a thing about falsehoods after all. Sorry to make you wait so long! :-(

Rose – Interesting enough?;-) Well, Gandalf it is. He'll make his cameo in the next chapter, which, with luck, will happen in far less time;-)

Elaine- not a bother at all. Thanks for the mail. 


	9. Journeying On

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.

_A huge apology to everyone who's been reading, for such a long delay in updating, more so since this is the last chapter and fairly short and merely ties things up and therefore should really not have taken so much time! _

**Echoes of the White Horn** Chapter 9: Journeying On

Boromir seemed to have returned to his usual, energetic self. He brushed aside the injury as a mere scrape, even as Faramir fired a volley of questions at him. He thought his brother looked a little unhappy, and then decided that he was probably still weary.

"Do you think you can ride?"

"I _have_ served in the cavalry, you know," Boromir replied.

Faramir frowned at the flippancy. His brother had always had little patience with the notion of resting out an injury. He made another attempt anyway, "You know that was not what I meant."

"I feel quite well," Boromir said firmly as he pushed his sword back into its scabbard after taking a few swipes in the air with it. He flexed his wrists and pulled on his gloves.

"Perhaps you should rest a while longer," he said worriedly, "You hurt your head, and the river dragged you a fair way downstream –"

"A long swim in the river does little harm!" his brother retorted as he pulled his cloak on, "Would you prepare to leave now? The hour grows late, and we should have been in Minas Tirith by now. I would not have Father worry over us needlessly."

Faramir had no doubt whatsoever that Denethor would not be overly pleased with everything that had occurred. He would not appreciate their detour into the mountains, merely to get him a new bow. He would not have been expected to be so irresponsible with the old one to have let his cousin play with it and break it. 

And he could not help but wonder what his father would think of his encounter with the strange rider. Faramir had been forced to trust him, and he knew they had been fortunate that the rider had never intended any harm. If he had, there would have been little he could have done. It was probably better, he decided, as he stamped needlessly upon the embers of the previous night's fire, that Boromir relate the events to their father. 

He came out of his reverie when he realised that Boromir seemed to be searching for something. He kept glancing around the little shelter, and his hand kept going to his belt. It was as he gathered up his pack that he released why his brother looked so upset. He put a hand in and pulled out the horn he had found in the stream, and wordlessly held it out. Boromir reached out for it, almost in a daze.

"I thought I had lost it," he replied with relief and glee, as his hands caressed its contours almost reverentially.

Faramir watched his brother tuck it into his belt before he stepped out of the shelter. He had seen him do that so many times earlier, each time he prepared to leave. There was something in that small, ordinary gesture that suddenly made him realise how glad he was that Boromir was alright. At the sight of his brother standing erect and proud, looking every inch a soldier, his sword and horn hanging from his belt, he felt a tension release from his muscles that he had not known had been there all this while. He suddenly felt a lot lighter. 

"I found it in the water," he muttered, as he followed him out slowly. He looked up at the clear expanse of blue sky above him and then at the swiftly flowing stream below, through the trees around them and took a deep breath. A faint smell wafted in, which he recognised detachedly as that of pine needles. 

"And I knew not where you might be," he added, in a low whisper, that was nevertheless heard.

"I did not mean to worry you so," Boromir replied softly, placing a gloved palm on his shoulder.

He shrugged in response. He did not know what to say. He _would_ be worried where his brother was concerned, no matter what. Just as Boromir would be worried where he was concerned. His brother had been his greatest supporter all his life. He doubted if he could ever do enough for him. He simply clasped the hand that lay on his shoulder.

"We should leave now," he said.

Boromir nodded and walked over to his pony. The animal trotted forward towards him and emitting a tiny neigh, seemed to nuzzle at his neck affectionately. Faramir watched him pat her gently, and speak to her in low tones. He was still worried, but he was just as eager as Boromir to return home. And once they were home, he could ensure that Boromir saw the healers immediately. 

They saddled the ponies and mounted them, Faramir maintaining a critical eye on Boromir all the while to ensure he was indeed feeling well. The path leading to the main highway that entered Minas Tirith was wide and well marked out, unlike the trail the stranger had taken to Lossarnach. He found his eyes drawn to that path. It was but the faintest trail, long in disuse, and would probably have gone unnoticed unless one knew where to look for it. Not for the first time, he felt the man knew this land well.

"Watch where you ride," Boromir said sharply, "I would not have you repeat my errors!"

He jerked his head back with a smile, and as they rode on the downhill track towards the highway, he told his brother about the stranger.

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On a narrow beaten road to Lossarnach, the rider and his friend sat upon a broken down wall of an abandoned homestead, and watched their horses graze as they spoke and smoked from pipes that were not to be found in Gondor. Neither was the leaf they smoked. The friend was obviously much older than the other, as was evident from his white hair and beard. He held a staff in his other hand, even though he seemed capable of walking perfectly well without its support. 

Their conversation appeared fairly desultory, much like that of two men discussing the weather, which had indeed been one of the topics of discussion. It had rained just as heavily in the vales the day before as it had in the mountains. But the matters they discussed after speaking of the weather were far from uninteresting. The older man was particularly intrigued by his friend's companions in the mountains, for the road he had taken was rarely frequented in these times. 

They spoke of the eventful happenings caused by the rain, and the one name the rider had mentioned caused him to raise his eyebrows quizzically and smile a little. He had much to ask and just as much to say to his friend on that matter. 

"Denethor's sons," the rider said musingly, when they had finished speaking of his adventures.

"Yes," his friend replied blandly.

"I thought they looked familiar," he replied calmly, as he knocked the stem of his pipe against the stone structure he sat on, "I could not imagine why then. But now I know. There is a resemblance in their features."

"And what did you think of them other than that?"

The rider shrugged, "I spoke merely to Faramir. Boromir was asleep all through. But I could see that he and Faramir, both, look to be fine young men. Brave and hardy, I would deem, and intelligent. And they are quite fond of each other, as brothers ought to be. Worthy successors to the Stewards' line, I should think."

He ignored his friend's probing look as he continued studying the grass under his feet. 

"And what else did you think of Boromir, the Steward's heir?" his friend asked as he sent a smoke ring spiralling up.

"Boromir?" the rider watched the white ring of smoke stand out against the blue sky, and then slowly dissipate, before turning and answering, "I thought he had grown quite a bit since the last time I saw him as a babe in Ecthelion's arms."

"I am obviously ageing," he added with a mock dramatic sigh.

The older man scoffed in reply, but asked no more on the matter. They had other work at hand, and interesting as the meeting might have been, it was of little significance at the moment.

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The rider was a matter of just as much interest to the two brothers who formed the topic of his conversation. Faramir patiently described the rider to his brother down to the last detail, as also his sparring bout with him on the riverbank. He even found himself describing his sword and other weaponry and armour for Boromir was greatly intrigued by the thought of a ranger from the northern parts. And all the while, he kept a sharp eye on his brother, to ensure he was alright. It was usually the other way around.

They had been travelling swiftly and would near the raod to Minas Tirith soon. The stream had veered off in a different direction a while ago, much to Faramir's secret relief. The incessant noise of the swift cataract kept reminding him of his frantic trek along its banks the day before. The steep mountainside had given way to a gentle slope, and the tall and forbiddingly thick masses of trees had given way to shorter, smaller clumps of woodland.

"He said he was a traveller from parts to the North?" Boromir was asking with interest, "Perhaps he was one of the rangers from the North! I have heard of them, but never seen one. I wish I could have met him. What was he doing here?"

Faramir shrugged, "If you had only woken up while I asked you to last night, you might have spoken to him. He was on his way towards Lossarnach, to meet an old friend, he said."

"They seem to be getting a lot of visitors there, these days," his brother said wonderingly, "Mithrandir is there too, is he not?"

"So were we. But I do wonder -," he broke off, chewing his lip absently, and gazed skywards, watching the pattern made by the patches of blue sky that appeared through the branches of the tall trees they rode under. 

"What?"

"It does seem strange."

"What seems strange?" Boromir asked in a tone that indicated long-suffering patience.

"I wonder who his friend might have been?" Faramir replied slowly, "If he is a traveller from the north, he must know very few people here."

Boromir shrugged, "As long as he did you no harm, I am inclined to think well of him. He may meet whomsoever he likes wherever he likes! Did he not tell you tales of the northern lands? I would have thought you might have enjoyed hearing those."

"No, he would not speak much of his travels. Is that not the highway there?"

The wide road stretched below them, winding its way through the gently sloping land stretching out below the spur they were upon. In the distance they could see a few wains heading towards the city. The sun shone down brightly now.

It was as they neared they entered the larger road that he reverted to the subject, "You would have liked talking to him. He was a good swordsman."

Boromir shrugged, "Well, if we ever come across him some other time-,"

"I wonder if we might," Faramir murmured. He was beginning to feel a little tired now, and the sun overhead made him feel almost languorous. It was a startling change from the gloomy grey skies they had encountered just the day before.

He was suddenly reminded of Denethor, and turned sharply in his saddle towards his brother, "If Father asks why we are late," he began.

Boromir cut him off, speaking in an almost embarrassed tone, "I shall tell him we were delayed by the squall, and that I took a fall near a stream. Let us not cause him needless worry."

He nodded. He doubted his Father would wish to discuss the matter with him, but he felt for some reason, that he would prefer not to tell him that a complete stranger had managed to disarm him, and that he had still trusted him with his and his brother's life. 

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At the end of a long serious conversation on matters quite pressing, the rider and his companion arose, and made ready to ride on their way, for they had far to go.

But then the old, white haired figure suddenly recalled that he had one more question for his friend, "Now… which one of your names does my young friend know you by? I must after all, be careful not to use it in front of him, ever."

The End

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**Notes:** This probably stretched canon a fair bit. But it seemed worth experimenting with. There's nothing in the books to suggest that Aragorn might ever have ventured right into Gondor after he left Ecthelion's service. 

What the appendices say under TA 3001 is - _Gandalf seeks for news of Gollum and calls on the help of Aragorn._

It's not clear where they searched at that time, just as it's not clear that Aragorn's path to Gondor might ever have traversed the White Mountains. It's quite reasonable to assume Aragorn would have seen Boromir as an infant more than a few times. However, it's probably also highly unlikely that he and Boromir and/or Faramir would ever have met post his departure from Gondor in 2980 and prior to the events in LOTR. _But_ it seemed worth a shot, as a possible AU scenario. 

Thanks a lot to everyone who accepted that and thanks also for reviewing and mailing us despite the prolonged delays in updating. It was very much appreciated!

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Anita – Umm… no, it's the same book as yours, hereafter;-). They meet in Minas Tirith. Thanks for reviewing.

Susan – Really sorry to take so long. :-( Glad you liked the chapter and the use of the alias. Aragorn did after all, have plenty to give away!:-) Thanks so much for your reviews.

Lirenel – well, now he knows! He might or might not have known earlier. Or even if he had known, he might not have placed the connection. Gandalf is a smart old man.

Rose – Ah, canon! *grin* Yes, that was why Boromir was the one who was at the receiving end, and not Faramir:-) Glad to hear the meeting came out well. *phew!* Mutual respect is good! Re. falsehoods – no, it's the reference to his not uttering them - not even to snare an Orc, remember? Thank you so much for all your reviews. 

Elaine- Thanks for your mails. And sorry for the delay 


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